February 21st, 2007
“Knock it down,” the man beside me says, “clean it up.”
A building is being demolished outside, there are strange sounds, the steel beams are squealing in shocked animal protest, people walking dogs pause and gawk, bikers brake and linger.
Stand long enough and little white particles will accrete to your hair and clothes and to the alveoli of your lungs, blown by the wind from the wrecking place. Yet we stand, and watch. And some thrill.
We were born with a hunger for violence –- atavistic, slumbering, forgotten, euphemized, dressed up in the clothes of progress and civilization, but never erased, never unyoked to our spirits.
And if we can no longer slake it, from atrophy of will or muscle, we build things to do it for us –- or sate ourselves by proxy of army and mob.
C. Way/ SnailCrow.com © 2006